Hysterical Paroxysm

I thought I'd feel a lot better when we started getting some kind of resolution from the swirling fecal maelstrom we've been trying in vain to keep out of our eyes and mouths for the past two years, but oddly, the closer we get to the end of the active investigation, the more nihilistically certain I am that none of it will matter. I mean, Individual-1 already said a loooooooong time ago that he could shoot a guy in the middle of Fifth Avenue and not lose a single vote. Turns out he may actually be right, even though at this point, if he had ONLY shot a guy, the law would be after him less heavily than it currently is.

All I know for sure is you're not longer allowed to call it a witch hunt if everyone named in it is forced to plead guilty. The Witch Hunt Where Everyone Turns Out To Actually Be A Witch sounds like the worst children's story of all time. If it had happened in the past, The Crucible would just be a pedantic procedural about witch hunters getting about their totally valid business.

So no, I don't feel better. Yes, it will be clear that the current president will be indicted* on more than one count of many things he actually did, up to and including colluding with a foreign power to undermine the process of American democracy, inspiring an entire party to abandon governance and representation in favor of rewriting laws to suit their position and outright, brazen voter fraud. And he'll probably get re-elected in 2020. I guess if I was trying to find one positive, it did let us fully see what a cynical, useless dick Orrin Hatch is.

I didn't want to write about any of this. When I'm feeling anxious or down, my therapist said** I should start journaling more, suggesting I don't even think about what I want to write about, just sit down and start writing. Something will come.

Well ha, the joke's on her then because that describes exactly my methodology for blogging these past 14-plus years and I can tell you quite definitively I haven't landed on one worthwhile bit of self-discovery yet. Quack.***

Anyway, I'll just do it here, free-form, and see how it goes. I was going to apologize and thank you all for letting me be so nakedly self-indulgent in print, but ha again, last week I wrote like 8,000 words on the one time Michelle Obama said "shit" that everyone already forgot about. DON'T PRETEND, YOU KNOW YOU FORGOT.

OK, here goes. I hope you're sitting down, because here comes the firehose. Because of all the volume at high speed... of good ideas... you know, I shouldn't have tried to explain the metaphor. I'm getting sidetracked. THIS DOESN'T COUNT AS STARTING YET.

OK, OK... for reals this time. For reals. Wait, "for reals?" That is not something I actually say. Reals. Like plural. That's like one step from "for realsies," which if you ever hear me say that, you absolutely have my permission to judo chop me in the dick.

OK. I know I already said OK a lot, but OK. I'm resetting. Journaling. Gotta get in the mindset. The flow-state. The transcendence beyond active consciousness... which I'm now totally thinking about instead of letting my mind go blank. This is so dumb. It's transcendence beyond active consciousness. It's a very compelling idea, you guys. How am I not supposed to contemplate it?

This is really frustrating. Maybe the smart thing to do is to count the above as journaling. It has some kind of value, right? I mean, I bothered to type it... but then the same can be said for everything on James Woods' twitter and we're not going to go around imbuing any of that with value, now are we?

Maybe this was too much to ask. Maybe the answer is: fuck it, just feel bad for a while. Cope in other ways. It's emotional palliative care. Which you guys know usually just means donuts and peanut M&Ms. Not great for the ole diabetes and cholesterol, but what the fuck, did we want to live forever, like this?

Ah, I think I found it! Someday I'll be dead. Not just me, but everyone alive today and this entire sociopolitical context will have been wiped from the earth. You know, for the first time since November 2016, I feel the tiniest spark of relief. Now all I have to do is hope it finds a passing cloud of invisible yet highly explosive gas.

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*Or maybe not because his position is... unique. Also he has stupid hair. Not really relevant to the point here, but it should be called to attention at every available opportunity.

**I'm no longer seeing a therapist, not since she wouldn't budge on my earnest, passionate requests for treatment via pelvic massage to lure my wandering uterus back into a position to promote stability.

***Wait, do I think I'm a duck? I don't. I don't. I... definitely? Don't?